Waltzes, Minuets, the Whole Lot
by EverythingIsMagic
Summary: America and England are invited to a ball put on by France, but America discovers that he's more than a bit rusty on the art of fine dancing. Luckily for him, he can always ask England for help. AmericaxEngland
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**This is a fanfic I'm writing for the fic and art-athon over at livejournal's USxUK community (which I moderate /plug). This story will be three chapters you enjoy!

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_**Waltzes, Minuets, the Whole Lot**_

_Chapter One_

**By Everything is Magic**

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_Vous-même et un invité êtes cordialement invités à venir à un bal donné par France_

_Chateau de Versailles_

_Place D'Armes, 78000, Versailles, France _

_Vendredi, le 19 juin 2009._

_6:00 p.m._

"Yourself and a guest are cordially invited to a ball given by France. It's at Versailles on Friday, June nineteenth at six p.m," America read the elaborate gold embossed card out loud and tossed it to England.

"You have got to be joking," England grumbled as he turned the invitation around in his hands.

America grimaced, resting his chin on his hands. "It does sound terrible."

England shook his head and set the invitation on the table, then ran his hands through his tousled hair in exasperation. The pair were at America's house, and the younger country had just returned with the mail. The gold sealed invitation was the sole item occupying his mailbox.

"He's throwing a ball at Versailles," the Briton said. "How utterly foppish of him."

America allowed himself a grin. "Yeah, pretty much." He frowned again. "My boss will want me to go, I just know it. He's all about good diplomatic relations, about repairing our alliances with the rest of the world."

"That's hardly a bad thing, but when it's France…"

"D'you think you got an invitation?" He tapped his fingers and took a swig from his glass of Coca-Cola.

"Oh Christ, I hope not." England rolled his eyes.

America shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Can't exactly go by myself."

England, who had just taken a sip from his mid-afternoon cup of tea, spat it out. "You do _not_ expect me to go to France's ball with you."

The younger country reached across the table and slid his hand on top of England's. He shot him a cock-sure grin. "Misery loves company, right?"

England let out a groan of frustration, realizing that there was no way he was going to get out of being dragged by America to this… event. He considered France's previous balls. Centuries ago, he threw them all the time. But when his country was thrown into a turmoil that lasted decades, they ebbed and completely ceased. The Frenchman always loved a good party, but they never did pick up again after that. Now it was 2009, and France had randomly decided that perhaps it would be fun to do it again. For old time's sake? To screw with them all? To see gorgeous ladies and handsome men in high fashion? Who knew? England didn't dare even try to comprehend the mind of France. It was too disturbing a notion.

He picked up the invitation again and read the back, which featured more details on the celebration. Period fashion was encouraged, food would be provided, and the celebration would undoubtedly last long into the night. England crinkled his nose at that last part, and then his green eyes widened in realization.

"Hey America."

"Huh?"

"Well this is a ball, right?"

America blinked. "Yeah, that's… what it says."

England feigned innocence. "Oh well, that means they'll be quite a lot of dancing."

The American bit his lip. "Well I'm an awesome dancer."

"No, you idiot. _Proper _dancing. Waltzes, minuets, the whole lot," he elucidated with a huff. "I reckon you haven't done anything like that for a _very _long time."

America laughed nervously. "Ehehe, not at all. I know some basic stuff, enough to get me by for a few turns at the Inaugural Balls or at other stuff like that, but… I've forgotten everything else."

"Well knowing a 'few turns' won't get you by at one of France's balls," England countered.

America nodded and glanced away, momentarily lost in thought. He pulled his hand off of England's. He recalled a ball at the Crystal Palace, that glittering symbol of industrialization that shone as a beacon in drab London for so many years. He'd fancied himself a decent dancer, although being in rustic America most of the time; he rarely had a chance to attend European parties.

He and England were still not on speaking terms at the time, a curt sentence or two being the only words that slipped between them. But as with any event the two of them attended, America tried not to let the air between he and England get him down. He waltzed with lovely ladies and a few charming nations he was meeting for the first time. Those in the know regarding what America was congratulated him on his recent birthday- his _hundredth _birthday. Not truly a birthday, per se, as America had come into existence long before the War for Independence. But the birth of him as a nation, and the end of his life as a colony.

"Bonne anniversaire, once again," France said with a wink. He was surprised to see France at a party in London but assumed he had likely invited himself. He and France had been… strangely close lately, what with the older nation even asking one of his artisans to craft a most spectacular gift for his centennial. He'd seen the prototype sculpture. It was spectacular.

Slipping away from France, America found himself approached again. One nation came up and slung his arm around America's shoulder, clearly quite tipsy. He congratulated the young nation, and it was then that America's eyes flitted to the side, and he saw England out of his peripheral vision. The Briton was frozen mid-movement, and he scowled when his green eyes met America's blue ones.

Those green eyes were betraying his expression, because even America couldn't miss the remorse they held. His stomach dropped, and he pulled away from the other nation, excusing himself to the 'water closet' (still a rather new and exciting invention). He didn't see England the rest of the night, and when he asked around, no one else had seen hide or hair of him either.

After that, the ball hadn't been a joy any longer. No amount of dances with lovely ladies, or alcohol, or nations congratulating him made his mood any less sour.

And that was the last time America had done a lot of _proper _dancing. Waltzes, minuets, the whole lot.

"America?" England said, snapping the younger nation out of his reverie. "You all right?"

"Hmm yeah, fine," America replied, turning back toward England with a sigh. "Guess I'll have to learn again then."

"Ah?"

"How to dance _properly_, of course," he explained, holding a pinky up in mockery as he took another sip of his Coca-Cola.

England threw the invitation back onto the table and grumbled, "Well you have almost a month. I'm sure you can easily find a proficient dance teacher and schedule some private lessons."

America averted his eyes and cleared his throat.

"What?" The Briton queried.

He tapped his fingers on the table and then shot a fleeting look at England.

"What are you---" His eyes grew wide when realization dawned on him, and he waved his hands in front of him vehemently. "No, no, no. There is _no _way I am doing that."

"Why not?" America raised an eyebrow.

"Because I'm not!" England crossed his arms.

The younger country grinned. "You'll do it."

"Won't."

"You will. I know you."

"What makes you think I--- "

And it was then that America put on his best face, or rather his worst, because it was so damn good. Shameless, pathetic, adorable; the kicked puppy. His blue eyes were large and his mouth formed a pout. He glanced down, dejected. There was nothing innocent about it though, because America knew the effect it had on England. _You'll do it._ "Please England? C'mon. It could be fun…"

England exhaled. "You are _terrible_. Why do you want me to do it anyway?"

America shrugged, dropping the act. "'Cuz I don't want some random prissy dance teacher to show me how. I'd rather have a prissy_ England_ do it."

"You could explain yourself without mocking me," England retorted. The younger nation slid out of his chair and sauntered over to the counter, lifting the lid off his favorite cookie jar. He snatched up a chocolate chip cookie and shoved it into his mouth.

"Want one?" He asked, mouth still full.

England rolled his eyes. "Sure, fine. Now answer my…"

"D'you want a glass of milk with yours?" America interrupted.

"No. I don't want a bloody glass of milk!"

"Okay, geez." He sat back down, shoving a cookie across the table toward England. "I just want you to, all right? Can't I have my reasons?"

"Not if they involve you thinking it's a surefire way to tease me." The older country took a small bite out of his cookie.

America's brows furrowed and he slammed his palms onto the table. "They don't," he spoke firmly. "It's not that at all England. I just…" His cheeks pinked. "I want it to be you," he finished, his voice softening as he did so.

"…W-when shall we begin, then?" England inquired, irritation leaving his voice. His cheeks flushed as well.

The American beamed. "Really England? Umm… how long do you think it will take?"

"Hmm," he considered, "quite some time, if you're that rusty. How about we start next week after Tuesday's summit?" America nodded his approval. "We'll do it at my house. I've got a nice selection of classical albums." The younger country snorted. "Oh, shut up. Do you propose we waltz to Kelly Clarkson?"

"Nah, if I wanted to dance to pop music, we could just raid your Kylie Minogue collection."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He went back to sipping his tea.

"London. The Wembley Arena. December 2007. I just HAD to come to her comeback show with you, no ifs ands or buts," America accused.

"I did not force you to come. You could have said n--- "

"Oh America, I've got two tickets. It would be a waste to not use one, since they're front row seats. So if you want to come along and see some real pop music, you can take it."

"That was me asking if you wanted to- "

"No, that's Englandglish for 'come or I'll be upset and you'll have ruined my night.'" America slurped down the last of his Coca-Cola.

"Englandglish?" The Briton sounded positively appalled. "Honestly, you could just say English. I _am_ England, after all. It's my lang--- "

"No, Englandglish is totally different from normal English. Only you speak it." He smirked.

"You are_ moronic_," England quipped.

"Takes one to know one," America countered. When England opened his mouth to argue back, the younger country cut him off. "So next Tuesday then? Classical music and dancing at your place?" England nodded. "We can get a bite to eat before hand. Maybe stop by a chippy?"

The other nation smiled lightly. He, for some anomalous reason, found great amusement in America using any of his slang (at least, when he wasn't doing it mockingly). "A chippy would be fantastic."

_Amazing Grace_, England's cellphone ringtone, emanated from the countertop. England walked over and picked up his phone. "'Allo. Yes, sir." He turned his head back to America. "Hold on a moment. It's the Prime Minister."

"Okay."

England stepped out into the living room to take the phone call, leaving America alone in the kitchen. He pressed himself against the chair, closing his eyes and rolling his head back. _Fuck, why does England have to question everything? If anything, he should be happy I'm actually admitting that another nation is better at something than me. He's always complaining about my pride... _He reached under his glasses and rubbed his eyes, thinking back to a time long before Texas rested on his nose. Before he was a nation, even.

His suit had felt tight and foreign, the button near the waist especially discomfiting. But England had picked it out, and he assumed England knew what he was talking about. He was a great nation after all.

It had been when England took his arms to teach him the waltz that America found himself truly uncomfortable. The shorter man's firm hand was in his own as he guided them through the steps, one, two, three, one, two, three. His voice was soft but commanding. The dance was not _that_ difficult, America assured himself; but that didn't stop him from tripping on England's feet repeatedly. The country cursed under his breath, and his colony pulled away in embarrassment.

"Sorry England. I don't know what's gotten into me." America blushed and rubbed the back of his head.

England smiled. "It's all right America, let's try again?" The country was of course, playing the part of the female in the dance so America could learn the part he needed to know. This meant that the colony was forced to put his hand back on the small of England's back. He coaxed America to begin the dance again.

He didn't understand. He'd been taught how to dance by a French dance master years before, and he'd been a quick learner to the craft. He wasn't particularly graceful, but he was more than competent. And he, if he could say so himself, was very good at the English Country Dances.

"One, two, three, one, two, three."

This time America stumbled entirely, tripping on England's feet and falling forward. The country fell spectacularly backward, slamming against the floor with a gasp. America landed on top of him, catching himself with his hands just centimeters before his body would have pressed against England's.

America could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, hot heat, not merely warm. He imagined his face must have been red as the blood beneath his skin. And England was staring right at him; his wide green eyes into America's startled blue ones. And his cheeks were crimson as well.

England cleared his throat in a rather undignified manner and shoved America off him. The Briton gathered up his coat and belongings and left America behind in the room with a curt 'goodbye' and a scowl. The colony did not see the nation for the rest of the day.

It had been the first time the two had a moment like this. A moment where, if England had felt anything like America, he'd ached to lean closer to the other man, to take his lips in a kiss.

America rubbed his hand down his face, brought back to the present by the sound of England traipsing down the hallway and back into the kitchen. He shot his partner a smile as he entered. "What'd your boss want?"

England sighed. "Just a parliament meeting he wants me to attend. I've got to go right now, actually." He was standing next to America now and leaned down to capture the other nation's lips in a goodbye kiss, which was fully returned. He pulled away and gathered up his belongings from the countertop. "Goodbye, America. I'll see you on Tuesday."

"I'm sure we'll see each other before then," America replied.

"Probably." This time, unlike so many years ago, England smiled at him before he vanished from America's sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the feedback on chapter one. Here's chapter two of three.

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_**Waltzes, Minuets, the Whole Lot**_

Chapter Two

_By Everything is Magic_

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**Lesson One**

The chippy had been uneventful. America and England had talked about the World Summit over their baskets and wax paper, and America ordered seconds as usual. When they arrived at England's house, the older nation put in a classical music CD and spoke little as he cleared out a space in the living room, moving the furniture to the side of the room. "You could help." He gestured to America.

"Ah, oops. Your old man back giving you trouble?" He winked at England and picked up a couch easily, carrying it over one shoulder and setting it neatly against the wall.

England huffed. "Bloody show off, as usual." The Briton crossed his arms.

"I try," America quipped, moving the last piece of furniture, a table, out of the way.

"We'll start with a minuet." He snatched America's hand in his and cleared his throat. "The minuet is a dance generally done in ¾ time, although there are quicker versions, which originated in Ita--"

"England," America interrupted. "I don't care. I'm not here for a history lesson." He clenched his fingers around his partner's hand.

"I apologize. I know how much you don't like being cultured." He rolled his eyes and dropped his arm. "We actually don't take hands yet, now that I think about it. We have to bow first."

"Shouldn't you curtsey England? You're doing the woman's part, after all." America stifled a laugh.

"Oh come on." They bowed to each other. America leaned down and lazily placed his hand across his waist, sloppy and unrefined.

"Your bow is atrocious. Remind me to give you some lessons on posture as well before the ball." He slapped his left hand into America's right one. "Now we hold hands."

England counted under his breath as he showed America the steps of the minuet, the two swaying in beat to the music. After several minutes of practice, a few stumbles and some success, England changed the subject. "So why did you want me to teach you to dance?"

"This dance is boring, England," America averted the question.

"I never said every dance I teach you would be thrilling," England retorted.

America sighed in exasperation. "We're like… three feet apart and we never get closer. What kind of dance is that?" He smirked and grabbed England around the waist, pulling him closer until they were pressed against each other.

"Perhaps you'd be kind enough to stop complaining?" He flushed and feebly shoved at America's chest. "There will most certainly be a minuet, and you'd look right foolish if you couldn't even do something that simple."

"American dances are so much better." He whispered into the other nation's ear, his breath ruffling England's hair. "You'd think that with the dance being French, it wouldn't be so… chaste," America laughed.

England turned his head slightly and silenced America's complaining with a kiss. "Will that hold you over? There's still loads more dancing a meter apart that we have to learn."

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Let's get back to the boring prudish French dance, however that works."

The older country chuckled. "Things will get a bit more exciting after the minuet, I promise." England snatched America's hand again, leading them through the minuet once more.

America caught onto the dance quickly. He'd known it once upon a time, so it was just a matter of it coming back to him. He tuned England's counting out and watched his face instead. He was intent in his concentration on teaching America the dance, and this was reflected in his expression. England had asked him again why America wanted him to teach him, and he'd avoided answering.

America wanted England to figure it out by himself. Surely if he did, it would mean something to him as well, right?

Every few minutes, America would find himself unintentionally speeding up the dance, for which England reprimanded him. "Yes, I know it's slow. Be patient!"

America never had liked slow dances very much. He preferred them to be fast, upbeat, lively. When the people of his nation had started inventing dances of their own, exciting dances like nothing the world had ever seen before, America had been thrilled. He could get into these. They didn't require stuffy suits and music composed by old dead men and lists of proper protocol. His dances tore across the floor, in a frenzied fervor, and he couldn't deny his amusement when even Europe jumped into the fray, adopting his dances and the culture that came with them. During the second Great War, he experienced much of this first hand. Dance halls and pubs and parties played his music, and danced his dances, and he rarely missed a chance to tease England about it especially.

"All right, I think we're done for the day. You've got it down," England cleared his throat. When they pulled apart, America snatched England's hand and swung him out. "What the hell are you…?"

"The lindy hop, you remember that, right?" America grinned. He pulled England inward, wrapping his hand around his waist. "Now that was dancing!" He dipped the Briton down against his knee, and then smirked as he leaned down and teasingly poked his nose.

England squirmed away, nearly falling flat on the floor as he did so. "Christ's sake, America."

America shrugged and began to move England's furniture back to its proper place in the living room. He wondered if England remembered that as vividly as he did, the last time he'd taken the Briton's hand in a swing dance. It was just one more moment of almost, one more moment they'd just missed each other, but had walked away before anything began.

The sounds of big band had wafted across the room and a beautiful redhead was crooned at the microphone, her voice seductive and her green eyes daring. American and British servicemen mingled with the young women, buying them drinks and telling them stories of wartime heroics, some of which even America had no doubt were exaggerated.

"I'd never do that," America said, pausing to take a swig of his drink. "All of my heroics are genuine."

England snorted and gestured for the bartender to bring him another glass. "Bullshit."

"I could write an entire book about it. _Times I Came and Saved England's Ass with My Awesome_, by America." He held up his hands in front of him as if framing a title.

"War's not over yet," England retorted.

"Just _try _and catch up with me."

"Either way, the odds of_ you_ writing a book are about as astronomically small as--- "

"Oh I love this song!" America interrupted. The band had switched gears, from a crooning ballad to upbeat swing. He tapped his feet to the music. "Now this is music American style. It's the best! So much better than all the stuffy classical crap you have over here in Europe."

"I don't see how this is superior to classical music," England grumbled.

"You wouldn't."

"It's downright cacophonic." He gulped down his scotch.

"Caca-what?" America shook his head. "Never mind. C'mon England, get with the times! You're stuck in what… the 1600's?" America glanced over to the dance floor, where dozens of couples were engaging in a lively swing dance. The girls' skirts would fly up when they twirled, never showing what was underneath, but coming teasingly close.

"No, if it were the 1600's, you would still be tolerable." England slammed down the glass.

"Whatever, England." America rolled his eyes. "Damn, I do miss dancing." He rested his hand on his chin and sighed. "I mean American dancing, of course."

"Of course," England huffed. "If you want to dance, why don't you go ask someone?" He turned away, his cheeks pink. "I'm sure there's plenty of women here who would jump at the chance for god knows what reason. That's what all _your _soldiers do. Buy them gifts and…"

"Nah," America interrupted. Maybe it was the haze of the alcohol slightly clouding his judgment, but America himself could not have even predicted what he did next. "I'll just do it with you." He grabbed England's hand roughly and pulled him up onto his feet.

"Wha-what the bloody hell are you doing?" England's cheeks were as red as the swirling crimson skirts that dotted the dance floor. "Are you insane?"

America laughed, not letting go of England's hand. "What's wrong England, can you not swing dance? Is it too awesome for you?"

The Briton's thick eyebrows furrowed and his lips formed into a tight line. "Of course I can do it. I assure you that I can do anything you can--- "

"Then let's go!" America exclaimed, yanking England by the arm toward the dance floor. The older nation cursed, unable to pull himself out of America's grasp. "The lindy hop. You've got to know it, right?"

"Perhaps," England replied weakly.

But America could tell immediately that England wouldn't be able to keep up with his quick feet. Swingout. A hand around the waist. Spot turn (one, two, three, four, five, six). Fingers brushing against each other. Lindy circle. Fingers still touching, knees pressed together. Basket. Under the arm, hands never letting go. Dip. America's arm on England's back, guiding his body toward the ground, their faces barely missing each other as he pulls him back up.

At first America could tell that England was fighting him, but America kept his hold strong on the other nation, guiding him through the steps as best he could. Every few moments, England would nearly trip and America would have to wait for him to catch up.

"I can't believe I'm doing this with you," he grumbled as America closed the position in a swingout. This brought them face to face, almost in an embrace.

He froze there. "It's just a dance, England." But in the heat of the smoky hall, with the music blaring around him and drowning out almost every other sound, America's blue eyes connected with England's green eyes. He felt his cheeks grow hot.

"Just a dance." England turned his face away. America did the same.

"Definitely just a dance," America agreed, confused by the huskiness of his voice.

"The music's stopped," England whispered.

America's eyes grew large, for indeed the music had stopped. And it had been replaced with the sound of a siren. _That _siren. The one that everyone in London knew so well. The band had was putting their instruments down and throwing them into the cases, wary to leave them behind. The dancers around them were yelling and running, running to the closest safe spot.

And America and England still held each other, their breathing heavy. America was the first to pull away. "Let's help everyone get down to the shelter."

"Right, of course." England nodded. The pair split up, waving everyone the right direction and telling them to keep calm. America spoke gently to one panicking woman, chided a band member for refusing to leave his very large, very heavy instrument, and worked his damndest to get his mind off what had been happening before the air raid began. With England. It was so strange, and yet so familiar. His mind began to brush on a long forgotten memory, but he shook his head to will it away. It wasn't important right now.

He glanced backwards, spotting England, who was assisting an older man who had fallen down while running to the shelter. Then he walked outside, leaving England behind, and watched as the skies bloomed orange and crimson.

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**Lesson Two**

The furniture was moved, the CD player on, the lesson in full gear. America was more taken with these dances, the steps quicker and the contact closer. It wasn't quite as stuffy as the minuet. They completed the lesson before England brought it up again.

"Tell me again why I'm giving you lessons?"

"Ah, how about I go pick something us for us to eat? I'm starved," America changed the subject.

"America…" England narrowed his eyebrows.

"Right! McDonald's it is. I'll get us both the usual," he laughed a forced laugh and ran out the door before England could reply.

It was raining in London, as was so often the case. America cursed himself inwardly for not grabbing an umbrella. Perhaps he was being unfair, but it irritated him that England found it so bewildering that America wanted him to give him dance lessons. They shared the same memories, did they not? And why did he have to have a reason anyway? Maybe he just wanted England, the most important person in his life, to be the one that taught him. Maybe he just wanted to spend time with him. America pulled his jacket over his head and jogged to the closest McDonald's.

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**Lesson Three**

It was the Viennese Waltz, and when England took America's hand to show him how to start it, the younger nation almost jerked away in shock.

This was the dance. The one that England had run away from, the one America had blundered through over two hundred and fifty years ago. Surely England would remember now?

"It's far more intimate than what we've done before now, and you can speed it up so it's quite fast," the Briton explained.

"And it's Austrian?" America grinned. "So the chaste one is French and this one is Austrian…"

England couldn't help but laugh. "Yes well, at the time this was seen as almost scandalous. It took some time for it to catch on." He began teaching him the dance. "One, two, three, one, two, three." It was all too familiar. America bit his lip nervously and almost did not hear England's next instruction, causing him to come within a hair of tripping.

America's arm was around England's waist and the older nation leaned back slightly, their hands held. They spun in circles and America thought the lesson was going very smoothly, if he did say so. He wasn't letting this get to him. Maybe the memory didn't mean as much to England. Perhaps England had just left in such a rush because he had something to do. And it was so long ago…

England cursed, bringing America back to attention. "Bloody hell, America. You just stepped on my feet three times in a row!"

America's eyes grew wide. So maybe he was letting it get to him after all. "Sorry England, you must just be so clumsy that it's screwing me up."

He rolled his eyes. "It's not me that's doing it incorrectly. It's you. You were fine with the other dances but with this one…" The Briton shook his head.

"I'm just distracted by stuff today," America reasoned weakly.

England dropped his arm and sighed. "That's fine enough. Perhaps it's not necessary to learn the Viennese Waltz. You can just sit out for that one. We'll stop the lesson tod---"

"NO!" America yelled, clenching England's hand fiercely. "We're going to learn it. _I'm_ going to learn it."

The older nation blinked, nonplussed. "Why is it so important to you?"

America looked down at his feet, his bangs shadowing his face and his free hand fisted at his side. "Why do you think, England? Aren't I the one who you usually say is so thick?"

England's green eyes were wide. "What—what ever are you even talking about?"

"Think England, think. You and me and dancing. Have any good memories there?" America raised his head, meeting the other nation's gaze.

"I--- "

"We're doing this damn dance together, and I'm not leaving until I get it right," America demanded, placing his arm back around England's waist and raising their hands up to shoulder level.

England nodded. "One, two, three, four. Let's get this over with then."

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**June Nineteenth:**

They'd decided to go Victorian, vests and puff ties, coats and slacks. America had vetoed the hats. "Yeah, yeah I know we used to wear them. They just look funny to me now." His vest was maroon and his suit black, England's vest was a rich green and his suit black as well.

"We look pretty awesome, if I do say so," America commented as he pulled on his jacket.

The other country snorted. "A bit odd though…"

His partner did look fantastic, America thought. The clothes suited him, even more than a more modern suit would have. His mind wandered back to another time England wore a similar suit. That night at the Crystal Palace…

He shook his head, hating how this ball had caused him to dwell on the past so much.

"What's odd?" America finally queried.

England turned his face away from him. "Ah just… us… together," he paused, "in this clothing."

He faced the mirror that occupied the front foyer they stood in and stared at his and England's reflections. "Yeah, like going back in time." He rubbed his hand on top of England's hand, coaxing him to take it. The Briton did so. "Looks sort of like an old fashioned photograph!"

"I'm quite sure we don't have any photographs like this." England gestured down to their clasped hands.

The younger country sighed. "No, we wouldn't." He beamed nervously. "Would be nice if we did though!"

An awkward silence fell between them. Their hands remained joined and they stared deftly, thoughtfully, at their reflections before them. It was as if they were both taking a moment to imagine, to dream of what it would have been like if they'd reconciled earlier.

England was the first to break the silence. "I demand that, before we go, you tell me why you insisted upon me teaching you to dance."

And America dropped his hand. "I was hoping you'd figure it out on your own."

"Well I haven't."

"Really? Nothing at all."

England's eyes flashed in recognition for a moment, but he shook his head. "I'm not quite sure."

America slid his palm down his face. "My first tailored suit- 1749, or somewhere around there, the Crystal Palace- 1877, Vergeltungswaffen Blitz- 1944, Kennedy's inauguration- 1961…"

"Oh." He raised his eyebrows.

"We were always missing each other. One of us always left, whether it was by choice or not…" He leaned forward, placing his hands on England's shoulders. "England, we've known each other for four hundred years, and how often have we really, really danced together?"

The older country flushed. "Look, about the time with the suit. It was… I didn't quite know how to handle it at the time, all right?"

America felt a small smile creep across his lips. "Neither of us probably did. I mean it took us like, two hundred years after that…"

England stifled an ironic laugh. "God, we're pathetic."

"Your words, not mine!"

He shook his head and reached up, removing America's hands from his shoulders and holding them instead. They were face to face. "We haven't really, have we? We've done so much, and yet we haven't so much as shared an actual proper dance."

America nodded. "Like I said, I wanted you to figure it out yourself…"

"Why were you so insistent on that?" England inquired.

At this, America's cheeks reddened. "I was hoping those memories were important to you as well, that's all."

The Briton closed his eyes and shook his head, his lips quirking up in a half-smile. "They are important. Of course they are, you idiot. But they're not very good, are they?

"Um no, that was… my point." He rubbed the back of his head. _I wanted to make better ones…_

England snatched up his keys and gestured America to the door. "Come now. We'll be late to France's awful party."

"Better with two though, right?" America followed behind him as he opened and shut the door.

"I do think so." England glanced at him warmly.


End file.
